By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter Six: The Smell of Rabbit

The sun was just a whisper on the horizon when The Box door was flung open, and he uncurled himself from the box. His back ached. His muscles throbbed. But he stood — slowly, steadily — and looked Sheriff Colt in the eye, expecting him to lock him up for work detail as usual, so he was surprised when Colt slung the leather belt onto his shoulders, and carelessly flung the usual Chain Gang shackles to the ground at his feet.

You’re gonna lock yourself up today Cityboy.  Show us you’re accepting your punishment and your fate…”

No words were exchanged as Peter carefully slid the belt of off his shoulders and strapped it tight around his waist – the half loop positioned in front; then ratcheted the shackles on his ankles which had a vertical chain running up to the belt hasp, and attached to a pair of long chin handcuffs which he was ordered to pass through the hasp, and then  ratchet in place as well.

He dug holes that morning without complaint. No shade. No water breaks. No delay.

The twins noticed.

Colt watched him work from the porch of the bunkhouse, arms folded. Wade leaned against a fence post, chewing a sliver of straw.

“City boy’s not half-bad with a spade,” Wade finally muttered.

“Still too quick to look over his shoulder,” Colt replied. “Smells like rabbit.”

Wade nodded. “Then we make sure the rabbit don’t run.”

By dusk, Peter stood by the water trough, neck glistening with sweat, chains dragging like an old friend. He drank deep, eyes low.

“You holding up?” Colt asked, voice calm, neutral.

Peter hesitated. “I’m here.”

Wade circled behind him. “That you are. But we’re thinking you might be you’ve been eyeing the fence line.”

Peter’s shoulders tensed. “No—”

“Way too often.” Wade said flatly.

“Don’t lie” Colt muttered as he walked toward the barn.

Peter backed up a step. “I’m not trying to—”

“We smell rabbit,” Wade said again, quieter this time.  “And the ankle shackles only shorten your step.  So….”

Colt returned with something heavy in his hands: a rusted steel ball, thick as a cannon shell, trailed by a short length of chain. At the end, a heavy iron shackle.

Peter’s mouth went dry.

“You won’t be running, so get it out of your mind right now.” Colt said, kneeling beside him. “We’re keepin’ you where you belong.”

Wade set down a small canister welding torch and struck the flame with a sharp hiss.

Peter looked between them, panicked but motionless.

Colt snapped the shackle shut around Peter’s ankle. It was cold, wide, and raw against the skin. No lock. Just a thick hinge and a steel lip.

Then the torch lit up orange.

Wade crouched beside it. The metal glowed under the flame. Peter flinched as the twins braced him, and with a loud sizzle, the weld was sealed.

The shackle was now permanent.

“Can’t jump fences with thirty pounds of iron on your leg,” Wade said, wiping soot from his gloves.

Peter looked down at it, breathing hard.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t plead. Just stood, feeling the raw heat radiate from the still-warm weld, chain clinking quietly against the ball on the ground.

Colt leaned close. “You’re doin’ fine, Peter.

It was the first time they had ever called him by name.  It felt like a kiss.

“Just don’t forget where you are.  And who you belong to.  And that you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

That night, Peter lay on a cot in the far corner of the bunkhouse. The collar remained. And now, the ball and chain curled beside him like a sleeping beast, always pulling.

But in the darkness, he did not cry. He did not plan escape.

He listened — to the breath of crickets, to the buzz of flies, to the distant sound of the twins talking in low voices on the porch. And inside himself, something settled.

He was a prisoner. He was not going to be free anytime soon. Not even close.

But he didn’t want to be.  This realization hit him harder than any Prison Strap.  He didn’t want to be free of these two.

He longed for them to again take him.

He dozed off, but was soon awakened by the heavy, hairy hulk of a man on his back, the hard shaft plunging into his hole once again.  It was over way too fast for him, and when the man was pulling off of him he heard a whisper “We have fun planned for you tomorrow.”  And then he was gone.

Had it been a dream? Which brother was it?  Peter didn’t care.